‘Your mother!’ Pandelis laughs in her face. His breath stinks of brandy. ‘Who keeps you safe so you can grunt your foreign shit, eh? The Battalions, that’s who! Patriots, giving their blood so that red whores like you …’ He swallows wetly. ‘You know, Tourkala, you should thank your protector,’ he rasps. ‘Go on, then! Thank me in the name of Greece.’ He grabs Zoë’s wrist, pulling her hand down, twisting it until her palm is pressed against the bulging crotch of his trousers. ‘This is your house, isn’t it, this little refugee kennel? Let’s go inside.’ He leers, his face even redder. ‘You dirty little Turk. I bet …’

‘Get away from me, you pig!’ Zoë struggles, but his grip is too strong. He stares at her, breathing heavily. ‘No, no, no,’ he says, but just as she feels she can’t fight against his grip any longer, the other Battalionist appears behind him. ‘Come on, Ioannis, you arsehole! We’ll be late!’ the man says, as if Zoë isn’t there at all. ‘I don’t want Plytzanopoulos giving me any shit.’

Zoë feels Pandelis’s grip tighten until it is unbearable. He growls. Then he throws his head back and spits in her face.

‘Don’t think I’ll forget you, Zoë Valavani. One day I’ll make you sing for me, all right. We’ll be back for you. For all you reds.’ His companion, plainly bored with the proceedings, claps him on the shoulder and begins to pull him away down the street.

Zoë stands, shaking but unable to make her legs obey her, watching the two men walk past the dead body outside the cafe and disappear around the corner. Her wrist aches from the man’s fingers. She realises that her other hand is still clenched around Tom’s badge.

Mrs Kodjagas is crossing herself and muttering the prayer for the dead. Zoë takes a deep breath, goes back and sits down beside her.

‘Are you all right, Kyria Venetia?’

‘Yes, but are you, dear one? My God, my God … what a curse, to see this madness for a second time in one life,’ the old woman says, tears gathering in the creases of her face. Zoë opens her hand. The cap badge has dug into the flesh, leaving a perfect imprint of itself. In the exact centre of her palm, the spokes of the wheel radiate like a red flower.

‘The English boy?’ Mrs Kodjagas is looking down at the badge. ‘The kapetanios?’ A tear is trembling at the end of her nose.

‘Yes,’ says Zoë, slipping the badge back into her pocket.

‘You were in love with him?’

‘I … I mean …’ Zoë stammers, but the old lady is gazing at her with an expression she doesn’t quite recognise. ‘Yes, I love him,’ Zoë tells her, and the old woman’s face creases with happiness. Just for a moment, hope visits them both.